


burn

by psychamonix



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Angst, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Minecraft Manhunt, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-01
Updated: 2021-01-01
Packaged: 2021-03-10 20:40:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 864
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28473294
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/psychamonix/pseuds/psychamonix
Summary: It’s like the chase, but it’s just him; just him and these two fragile pieces of his mind, struggling to force them back together until he’s whole again.---Dream thinks about ending a Manhunt early.cw: thoughts of self-harm and suicide (no actual sh or suicide included) + character death (again, not by suicide)
Relationships: Antfrost & Clay | Dream & GeorgeNotFound & Darryl Noveschosch & Sapnap, Clay | Dream & GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF)
Comments: 1
Kudos: 97





	burn

**Author's Note:**

> sorry, guys. i can't write just porn forever. 
> 
> this is a realistic mc au. respawns exist + sometimes happen, but other times people just heal from their wounds. permanent/life-long injuries (ex. scars, limps) do not get taken away by respawns

It’s the wandering, lonely part of the night, when the sun is long lost over the horizon, and the stars seem to whisper in the sky. The wind whistles softly through the trees, shuffling the leaves affectionately, and the whole world seems to proclaim its love for every small thing and every being. 

It just makes Dream feel more alone. 

Leaning against the tree trunk, he lets his eyes fall shut. He’s tired- not just in his muscles, but all the way down to the thrill of blood pumping through his heart. It’s a bone-deep ache, the kind that only comes from these Hunts, these days and nights of being constantly on edge, constantly anxious, constantly saving himself from death, snatching himself away from the descending scythe again and again and again. 

It’s exhausting. He doesn’t know why he continues, except maybe to prove to himself that he can. Even when he almost collapses with exhaustion, even when his head screams at him to rest, even when the very blood in his veins turns leaden, he can’t stop. He has to do it. If he doesn’t, he’s weak; if he does, he’s adequate. (Just barely.) 

This is the routine. He competes, he fights, he bares his teeth at the snarling beasts of the dark. He returns bloody and broken and resigned, or bloody and broken and triumphant. He heals- but not all the way, _never_ all the way. And then he is Hunted again. 

He’s never told the others about this. It’s a game for them, and he doesn’t want to ruin their fun. Plus, he can make it through. He’s capable. He’s strong. He’s _okay_. 

If they knew how he felt, they would force him to stop. They would feel guilty, would blame themselves for his own failure to maintain composure. So he doesn’t tell them. 

He opens his eyes to stare blankly at the fire, trying to monitor the hissing of his dinner cooking, but his eyes drift sideways, catching on the sword lying beside it, glinting mockingly in the firelight. 

Dream has never given up on a Hunt before. But he looks at that blade, that shining length of iron, and he’s...curious. 

What would it feel like to _choose_ to let go?

No Hunting, no Hunters. No familiar pursuers chasing him to the ends of the earth and beyond, tracking him through the darkest corners of his mind and out again. Always out again, always pulling him back from the brink, away from the edge. 

He thinks it would be better just to fall then to keep being toyed with. 

There are stories, lost to everything but the oldest books and the most diligent scholars, of beings who lived centuries ago and were burned by the barest touch of iron. Dream isn’t one of them- he’s been stabbed and sliced and flayed open more times than he can count, and recovered from most of them. He knows how the metal feels when it cuts open his skin, when it glances off the dip of his shoulder, skittering into the empty space beside him. He knows, intimately, the kiss of cold against his own bloody warmth; the bright, twisting sensation lighting up his nerves. 

But now, when Dream touches the blade, he swears it burns his fingertips, and he recoils, drawing his hand close to his chest. Then out again- he can’t stop now that he’s started- trailing his fingers from hilt to tip, dancing along the sharpened edge, swearing that his skin sizzles as he does. _Stop. Stop_ , something smaller and vulnerable cries in his mind, but he can’t now, mesmerized by the dangerous thrill that sparks within him. It’s like the chase, but it’s just him; just him and these two fragile pieces of his mind, struggling to force them back together until he’s whole again. 

So enraptured, he doesn’t hear the crack of branches under boot heels as they approach his campfire. 

He notices at the last second, sees the flickers of flame glancing of the pale white arch of the bow. Right before the arrow flies. 

Dream knows the shot is meant to miss, to distract. To blind him to the one he senses approaching from behind. 

But he doesn’t move. He stills, and watches it approach. 

It’s so different from a sword. The pain is sharper, more concentrated. Slower. 

Blood bubbles up out of his throat, choking him. He dies looking sideways at the blade. 

\---

George looks confused. 

“That wasn’t supposed to be a kill shot, Dream. How did you miss it?”

“Dunno,” he says, dragging a hand down his face. It tingles with the memory of metal. “Tired, I guess. That was a long Hunt.”

“No longer than normal.”

Dream sighs. “Long enough.” 

Something in his face seems to startle George, because he looks closer, ducking his head to squint at Dream’s face, half-covered by unwashed strands of hair. Dream avoids his eyes. “Is something wrong?” 

“It’s nothing.” Dream says, already turning away, dropping a hand to the hilt of his sword. “I’ve just been a little distracted lately.” 

His fingers twitch with a phantom urge. He ignores it.

“It’s okay, George. I’ll be fine.”

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading; feel free to check out my other works if you want more sad shit or (alternatively) decently written smut.


End file.
